Ben Wilson

This is the blog of a one Ben Wilson, a Louisville, Kentucky native who enjoys baseball, beer, music, bikes, things that fly and good food. By day he pushes pixels and makes the Internet happen for a local advertising agency. His wife, Kelly is an Ironman, and his baby Amelia is the cutest thing ever.

So i thought for all these years that [so-and-so] was a man. Had no idea otherwise! But dang yeah there are some people I never seen around this place (work).

But then it (d)evovled into what has been termed by others as “an elaborate daymare”:

…Oh, he’s from the Poughkeepsie office. I hear once he fully dressed a buck deer in an airplane bathroom…

…The least of all questions is just how he got the deer on the plane! He choked it to death in the wild after a three year stint of burrowing into it’s community and lifestyle. A deer blind? Hell no – this was a LIFE BLIND. The deer assumed he was another buck…

…He never lost focus, though. He waited for a breech in deer etiquette, which is so assumed by all deer that it reaches the level of a virtual certainly – it is after all their nature, so perhaps they do not even know it as etiquette…

…But he knew and he waited for the chance to choke that deer to death that would be legal and right in his eyes, even if the deer weren’t conscious of such legalities…

…The circumstances of the faux pas have been lost to time, but as the light faded from that buck’s eyes, the larger world opened up to him. He realized then and there what our co-worker from Poughkeepsie knew. And then, croaked from deer’s gullet was one final word: “mother”. Much respect was learned that day…

Over the weekend, Kelly and I helped Hunter and Jamie move into their new digs – a second story walkup apartment on Cherokee in the Highlands. A sweet two-story apartment with a master bedroom and bath down below and a big kitchen and living room upstairs. And it doesn’t even stop there! Above the living room there is a loft, which Hunter has deemed the “fapcave”. Also, a semi-private deck outside the master bedroom. Really unique place.

The move-in went pretty well until we got to the sleeper sofa. The stairwell leading up to the apartment was too tight, and even with the sleeper out of the sofa, we couldn’t cram it up the stairway. The only other choice? Over the 20-foot deck railing, of course! With only rope! The probability of failure lead us to choose the name Project Ridiculous.

Surprisingly, it all went fairly well. The sofa made it up in one piece thanks to no less than 10 people. Adam ensured us that we could get it up the second flight of stairs, and it actually did! Mission, operation, project — accomplished. Photos were captured and are in the 2006.04.03 – Project Ridiculous gallery.

For those of you who aren’t reading Achewood already or have previously attempted to grok that golden action and failed due to it’s sheer subtle gynormity, let me tell you that NOW NOWNOW is a perfectly opportune time to get yourself hooked. There are things happening on an epic scale with a story arc that is so brilliant and exciting that I am considering running to California to spy through Chris Onstad’s window to see just what will happen next.

Start here (January 11, 2006) with a seemingly innocuous tale about a squirrel and his new product, and read through the present day. And hang on, ’cause as far as black-and-white cats go, this story is epic. Fighting, family and a fake sacks on cellphones. Chris Onstad brings it to you for free.

Occassional readers of comics, like say Garfield, may not quite “get” Achewood. It’s a whole world created a panel at a time – and the punchlines are long and sometimes elusive. The characters come and go and even have their own blogs, and seem to use language like a man solving a Rubik’s cube in a wind-tunnel. I love it.

So, the Flying Spaghetti Monster craze has been brought to work by M@. For those uninitiated, the FSM is the primary deity in what has become known as Pastafarianism. It is now a bona-fide Internet craze.

But why? Why would someone create such a thing? Well – the Flying Spaghetti Monster is a parody religion made up to combat the Kansas Board of Education’s decision to give intelligent design (ID) equal time with evolution by natural selection in biology classes. Turns out that these Pastafarians believe that “Global warming, earthquakes, hurricanes, and other natural disasters are a direct consequence of the decline in numbers of pirates since the 1800s.” Considering Kansas has given the go-ahead to teach ID, they are obligated to teach FSM, right? Who needs Science when you have good storytelling and lobbyists.

You can get all the information you’ll ever need about the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster here:

I don’t know if ALL Thornton’s around town are going to switch over to the abomination that the Blankenbaker Road store have become, but if they do – be forewarned.

I occassionally would walk over there to get a tasty sandwich (of my own choosing) from Subway. The old ladies (angry) who worked there were a constant source of amusement and scorn for us here at Power. “What kinda bread you wont?” “I got 3 different kinda cheese here, honey!” All shaking their fists at the system that has entrapped them and relieved them of their dreams and wishes and what-not. Such was their ire that occassionally they’d Peter North your sandwich, despite your tearful pleas of “go light on the mayo”. This back-and-forth required a certain skill. Those uninitiated were always welcomed to try their hand. Eventually you’d master that skill and you’d get a tasty sandwich of your choosing. This whole human drama, for whatever reason, has been put to an end.

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Gone are the clear sneeze-shield and brass rails that decorated the Subway. Gone is the underground-themed wallpaper. Gone are the 5 loaves of bread to showcase the wealth of choice. Tthis has been replaced with an opaque stainless-steel hood so high that you can’t see the hands of the people making your sandwich. Also, the counter is set some 4 feet back, thus only separating you further from the people that will make your sammich. The real deal-breaker — the real slap in the loaf is this: YOU NOW ORDER VIA KIOSK.

Part of the reason I went to Subway (aside from the cheerful banter with the Subway hags) was to actually SEE my sub being made to the specifications I had previously uttered to the sandwich artist! If I said “hey, I’d like light low-fat mayo” I could see them putting the mayo on there and say “WOAH WOAH WOAH” when I had enough. But now I can’t see the sammich before it’s done and for all I know those ladies could be naked from the waist down (GAH!)

Back to the kiosk… when I was about ready to finish my order, some Thornton’s-clad douchebag strolls up next to me and starts pointing and explaining to me what to do next. I stopped him mid-sentence and said “Thanks, but I think I can handle this.” Turns out he’s some executive from Thorntons. He then tore off my receipt as if I couldn’t do it myself and handed me a coupon to get the deal for the day. All of which were within arms reach to me, and made painfully obvious.

So I get my food, which turned out to be a Turkey Sub and some waffle-cut fries (that was their deal for the day). I noticed they didn’t pull the fries out of a fryer like you would expect, but instead pulled them out of some oven-like contraption. DAMN. That stuff is straight-up frozen! And judging by the wide array of other foods they sell (pizza, toasted subs, corn dogs, etc) most of that crap will be frozen as well. I’ll tell you that I was not looking forward to this sammich at ALL.

The food was acceptable, but only because I paid $3.79 for the whole lot of it. Subway is far, far better and I certainly didn’t get EXACTLY the sammich I wanted like I would have normally. I only plan on going back to attempt to push that crap-worthy system to it’s very limits. Like asking that all the condiments be put on “lightly” and demanding that I see the sandwich after each step. Hopefully my skills of sammich-banter will incite a riot, or at least some accusatory remarks from the former Sandwich Artists that are now relegated to impersonal food contruction. As Charlie put it: “It’s like a vending machine with someone trapped inside” (paraphrase). Yeah, that’s it exactly.

While paying for my food at the main checkout, the cashier and I started up a conversation. As she was struggling with the new computers to run my card through as credit, I remarked “Modern convenience sho’ is grand, isn’t it?” She leaned in close (as to not be heard by the Thornton’s execs) and said “We are all about to friggin’ snap here…”

Note: this is repost of an email I sent out ot my friends. It was well received and made a girl giggle on her birthday, so I guess it’s worthy of mass broadcasting. And yes, while I was formulating this rant I did feel like Pat from Achewood.

Further note: This new-fangled Subway replacement is called SubWorks!. To quote the Thornton’s website: “The SubWorks proprietary food program allows customers to order top-quality sandwiches and other food items via a touchscreen menu—and then to receive orders in three minutes or less.” They forgot to mention the subjugation of human interaction.

O, what a glorious site to behold! The noble baking potato, expelled from a humble collection of plumbing supplies, cracking the silence with a percussive “PHOOOMP!”, inciting glee onto the faces of those who stand witness.

Imagine if you will a rough and ready collection of irregulars, bound together with the love of Science and the need for senseless aerial bombardment, executing the flawless mechanics demanded by such revelry. Then imagine that on a boat in a lake. Further, imagine that with much beer. Poseidon we respect ye not!

Finally, imagine revellers, merry-making and explosions to delight the soul! All there in the lawless, beautiful abandon required of such activities – Southern Indiana!

That, loyal readers, is what transpired this last Monday, July 4th. We have pictures to prove it: 2005.07.04 – Splosions!.

Much thanks to the Dillon family at large (save for Dalton – what a sucker. He chose Florida over incendiary tubers!) for hosting the event. A grill was lit, a boat was launched, and much champagne (of beers) was had. We celebrated the 4th of July in grand and ostentatious fashion, though the Right-Honorable Raging Bazooka Bear of Destiny did fall that night, inciting a near panic. “Hide behind the trees! The trees are our safety!”

I do hope that next years event will be as grand – hopefully, perhaps more arrogant in its flaunting of Science!

…I am in no way a white supremacist or a member of any Aryan group. Further, I would like to thank the intarweb at large for making me have to make statements like that.

It would seem that someone from the intarweb took my posting entitled “the pride of the species” to mean that I endorse Aryanism. Long story short on that posting was that the The Smoking Gun had posted a photo about the “scariest con ever”, and I had related that to my own overly-elaborate plan for the now-legendary “Goat House“, which is (of course) a reality TV-show wherein Death Row inmates battle it out each week in a bleek, unadorned house for a goat which is inserted (dropped through the ceiling) weekly.

You may notice comments from a “Callie” on the sidebar over there. Well, I also received a strange email from a one Calista Alvaraz, the contents are here exposed:

From: Calista Alvaraz

Date: 3/8/2005 5:42 PM

To: ben@XXXXXX

are you proud to be who you are?? i am in jail rite now… doin time for hate crimes are you about you skin as you put out???? let me know what is your deal.. pride power justice supremacy or what?? i am skin for life from a orginization called save our skins or S.O.S hit me up …

So – for the record – I don’t endorse such things, and frankly I don’t see how you could assume that I endorse Aryanism or any sort of white-power credo. I talked about putting him on a show called “Goat House” wherein death-row inmates battled it out for a goat a week for chrissakes. So, sorry, I gave at the office.

P.S. – If you should happen to make it to Death Row, please do contact me regarding “Ladies Goat House”